A New Cullen Sister - One Shots
by CriminalBones92
Summary: A series of one-shots related to A New Cullen Sister, told by the characters in the story. These are merely ideas that never made it to the final copy, or incidences that were mentioned but never fully explored.
1. Chapter 1

**Amelia's Life**

 **This is a summary of Amelia's life, as seen through her eyes. There will be mentions of her abusive past, but I will never go into more detail than that which she told Carlisle after their big fight.**

 **It starts off with her being three years old, then again at age five. The next few scenes are at age 10, 11, 13 and 15, when she sees Carlisle and Esme for the first time. I have kept her language and grammar use simple and made it more mature as she grows up. So Amelia's sentences at age 3 are simpler than at age 15.**

 **POV – Amelia.**

* * *

"Titch, I'm sorry angel. Daddy's gone to be with Mommy," Uncle Simon tried to be nice to me as he told me the news I had been waiting to hear. Papa was very sick. Uncle Simon told me that Papa and Maman were in our car when another car hit them. I thought cars only hit people walking across the road. Maman always made us run across the road, even when the light was green. She said that people in cars don't always like to stop at red lights. When we drove in the car, we always stopped at red lights – I checked every time. Maman and Papa promised me that they would always be there for me. Maman went to heaven the day before yesterday. I guess she needed Papa to stay with her, because he has gone too.

"Titch, sweetheart. They need to take Daddy to be with Mommy," spoke Uncle Simon. I frowned at him through my tears, could he not see that my heart was breaking? Papa's heart was not making any sounds anymore. His chest did not rise anymore. That meant someone was dead. I saw Maman yesterday. She was cold, but I wanted to say goodbye to her. Uncle Peter said that she could hear me from heaven when I said my goodbyes. I got stiff as one of the nurses tried to pick me up and take me out of Papa's room. I started to cry because I didn't want to leave him. He needed to come back. I needed him too. Maman was a big person. I was a little person. Maman always said that a little person needs a big person to help them grow up into a big person. Maman was in heaven, but why did Papa have to go too? Why did they both have to go?

"You're alright, my darling. Hush, little one. It's going to be alright," whispered Uncle Simon, taking me into his arms and carrying me back to my room in the children's section of the Eye See You. Papa said that it is not spelled the same way, and it is an abbrev- I forget what the word is, but it is short for Intensive Care Unit. It meant special care for special people. Papa said I was special, but I always came home from the Eye See You. He won't.

"What's gonna happen to me now? I'm a little person. Maman says I need to stay with a big person until I am a big person," I asked as Uncle Simon put me back on my bed. The sheets are pink. I don't like pink. Uncle Peter was now in my room too. He was crying. So was Uncle Simon. Papa must be very important to them too.

"You will come and stay with me until you are a big person," said Uncle Peter, as he tucked me into bed and gave my teddy bear.

"Promise?" I asked as a nurse put my drip back together and put a medicine into it with a syringe. I was now getting sleepy. That was weird. I had not even brushed my teeth yet. It could not be bedtime already.

"I promise, Mia," Uncle Peter promised. I don't remember anything else as I fall asleep. I just knew that I had a feeling that I won't be staying with Uncle Peter. In the morning, a lady came to see me. She said her name is Ms Colgan. She seemed nice. She asked me lots of questions but I just wanted her to go away. I wanted Maman and Papa. When I was finally allowed to go home, she took me away. Uncle Peter was yelling at her, and Uncle Simon was holding him back while she grabbed my arm and led me to a car. I didn't want to go with her. I wanted Uncle Peter. Uncle Peter made me a promise, and he didn't keep it.

* * *

"My name is Officer Potter. Are you Amelia?" asked a man with kind eyes. He was in a police uniform. I was scared, was I going to be locked away? Was this my punishment for hiding my face from the camera yesterday? He was hurting me. I still hurt, even now. I realised that he was speaking again, "It's alright. I am not going to hurt you. I am here to help you. Mr Warwick-James is going away for a long time."

I nodded my head and he took me by the hand, leading me out of the house. I started crying and tried to run back inside. My violin was in there. It was all I had of Maman and Papa. I didn't even remember what they look like. It scared me to realise that.

"My violin!" I screamed, coughing a lot. It hurt my tummy when I did. I'd been doing that a lot lately. He continued to walk away from the house and set me down, wrapping a blanket around my shoulders. It was cold. There was snow. Was it already December? It was so dark and cold outside, and I shivered. There was a lot of noise, and I saw Mr James coming outside. He was yelling. There was a police officer pushing him along the pathway. I shrank back against Officer Potter, but he still saw me and grinned that horrible smile that gave me the heebie jeebies. I felt something warm trickle down my legs. I started to cry when I saw that I had wet myself. I got wrapped up in another blanket and put in a different car to the one Mr James is in. I was not feeling very well. I think I had an infection again. Mr James had not been giving me my medicine like he should.

"We'll get you some clean pyjamas soon," promised Officer Potter. I didn't want clean pyjamas. I wanted my violin. I told him such. He promised me that he would find it. That made me sad. The last time someone promised me something, I got put in a house with people I didn't know. I don't even remember who that person was, but I know that he was nice. I believed him. I should not have. He was not my friend anymore.

"She's burning up," stated a lady police officer when we arrived at the station. She was touching my forehead but she was not a doctor. I didn't want her to touch me, but I felt too sick to care. She put a thermometer under my tongue and sounded scared when she read out my temperature. I started to feel sleepy. People started crowding around me. I just wanted my violin but I was too tired to cry anymore about it. More men in uniforms came, but theirs were different. They touched my wrist and put me on a bed. Then they put a mask on my face and put me in a van. I didn't want to go in the van but Officer Potter said that I had to go to hospital again. I didn't want to go there either.

I got my clean pyjamas. The Officer found my violin, and my teddy bear. He gave them to me the next day, which was Christmas Day. All the other children got presents from their Mommies and Daddies. I didn't know you got presents for Christmas. Most of them went home for the day. I had no one, except for Officer Potter giving me my violin and bear. I didn't want presents if it meant that I got those two things back. He didn't even yell at me for wetting myself. Ms Colgan asks me a lot of questions but I don't answer them. Mr James said that he would kill me if I told anyone. I told him I did not care. I wanted Maman and Papa. If he killed me, I would be with them in heaven. So he told me that he would hurt Ms Colgan. So I kept quiet. She was trying to help other kids like me, and if she died, who would help them?

* * *

"Amelia, this is Mrs Miller. She runs the group home," said Ms Colgan, introducing me to a lady with a plump face. I could say that she seemed to be nice, but I would not know. Most adults seemed to be decent until you get sick for the first time. I would not assume her to be nice until I've hurled on the floor or kept her up all night with my coughing and seen how she acts. I deliberately cough to see what she does. She keeps quiet but looks concerned. Perhaps she has potential to be decent. As long as she leaves me alone and doesn't hurt me like Mr James, we'd get along just great. I felt that usual pain whenever I think about him, it slices through my heart. I took a breath and count slowly to ten in my head. It helped, sometimes.

"Shall we go to your room?" she asked. I realised she was talking to me. I nod my head. She tried to take my violin from me, but I tightened my grip around the case. It's all I have of my mother. The case was battered and broken, but it served its purpose. On my back is my backpack with my clothes and my teddy bear. I do not have much, but I had enough.

When the social worker would come to take me to a new home, or take me to hospital, she'd give me a black garbage bag to put my things in to take with me. At one of my homes, my foster mom had cried when I arrived with just a black bag. She and her husband had brought me some lovely things, the backpack was one of them. I'd stayed with them for little over two months. We lived on a farm. It was the best foster experience. I'd been placed there shortly after Mr James, and it had helped me to recover from that incident. It had been a horrible day when they had died in a car accident. I really liked them. Their home was the longest that I had stayed at. I remember when they hugged me for the first time. I had cried for hours, until I found myself in my foster mother's arms again. She was crying too, I don't think she knew what else to do. But instead of feeling sad, I felt safe and protected in her arms. It was not something I was used to. It felt nice. After their deaths, I was given a garbage bag again. But this time, I refused. I had a backpack with my school things in it. It was the only thing that they had given me that I took with me. Everything else remained at the farmhouse. I wonder what happened to it. That couple was different to all the others.

"Well, here it is. You will have a roommate later on. She's also ten," spoke Mrs Miller. I smiled at her and thanked her, before walking inside and looking around. There were two single beds in the room, with a small table separating them. Beneath the table is a nebuliser with my meds in a box next to it, on top of the table is a bedside lamp. The table lies beneath the only window in the room. Two desks are on the other side of the room, opposite our beds. A small bookcase lies between them, with a few books on them.

"Which bed is mine?" I asked.

"You can pick either," she said, "Bree will take the other one. It doesn't matter, I'm sure she will not mind."

"How long will I be here for?" I asked. I may as well get to the truth. I'd hate to unpack what little I have and just have to pack it all up again.

"Amelia!" chastened Ms Colgan.

"It's alright," reassured Mrs Miller, "I've heard that you don't stay for very long in a home before you get sent somewhere else. I promise you, the next time you go into hospital, you will come home to this very room. You will not leave here until you choose to. I hope that you will stay here until you are 18, unless you get adopted."

"I'll never be adopted. No one wants a dying child."

"You're not dying, Amelia," Ms Colgan interrupted. She did not look too pleased with me.

"You never know, sweetheart. People adopt older kids all the time. There's a family waiting for you, they just don't know it yet," added Mrs Miller. I want to roll my eyes. Adults and their stupid promises. That man who knew my mom and dad promised me he'd take care of me. Mr James was supposed to look after me. Adults break their promises all the time.

* * *

"Amelia, this is Bree," introduced Mrs Miller. I saw Ms Colgan lurking in the background. I'd been here a few hours. A girl about my age stood hesitantly at the door of our bedroom. She was as afraid of me as I was of her. I guess she'd also been picked on by the other kids at her previous homes too. She held a sketch pad close to her. Her belongings were in a garbage bag. I realised how lucky I was to have a backpack to call my own.

"Hi," I offered. I'd been sitting on the floor, unsure which bed to take. Bree smiled back and the adults left us alone for a bit.

"Which bed?" asked Bree, unsure of herself.

"I don't know. Whichever one you want, I guess. I didn't want to choose without you," I shrugged.

"Really?" breathed Bree. She took a step towards the one closest to the closet and looked at me hesitantly. I smiled and put my violin on the bed closest to the door. Problem solved.

"Do you draw?" I asked, pointing at the sketch pad.

"Yes, do you play?" she motioned towards the violin. I nodded. "Will you play for me?"

"Only if you show me your drawings."

"Deal."

That was the start of our unlikely friendship.

* * *

"Keep still, Mia!" exclaimed Bree. She was lying on her stomach on her bed, legs bent at the knees and ankles crossed in the air. She was sketching away in the sketch pad that Mrs Rollins from the senior home next door gave her just last week. I was trying to practice my violin, but it was hard when your best friend keeps telling you to stand still.

"Take a picture, it will last longer," I retorted, but maintained the pose as best I could, "what is this for, anyway?"

"There's an art exhibition coming up soon at school and I'm thinking of putting some of my things on display. Mrs Conrad thinks that I have potential to go far with my so-called talent," said Bree.

"You are so good at art, Bree. You doubt yourself."

"So you do you," she countered, "you're easily the best violin player at school."

"Nuh uh, Sally Walters is way better than me."

"That's only because she is 12. We're still eleven."

"Can you believe that we have been here for a year?" Amelia spoke quietly.

"It's the longest I have ever stayed in one place," commented Bree.

"Same."

* * *

"Mia, open up the window!" I heard tapping at the window of my hospital room. I could see Bree tapping at the window, so I got out of bed and opened up the window. I turned on the light, taking her in. She had been reported missing yesterday, the police naturally assumed that she had run away. She had been gone for five days, but a report was only filed now. Typical.

"Bree, where have you been? Everyone thinks you have run away!" I hiss, not wanting to alert the night nurses to Bree's presence.

"I got attacked," she explained, turning to look at me in the light. I stifled a gasp at what I saw. Her skin was like porcelain, her hair was darker and thicker than before, even her voice sounded different. But her eyes, they were the most different. They were an alarming shade of crimson. At first, I thought she could be an albino, but her eyes had always been brown, and albinism was obvious from birth.

"What happened, Bree?" was all I could manage.

"I'm a vampire," she stated. I stiffened in shock. I thought vampires were the things of movies, total fantasy. To prove it to me, she darted across the room and back in less than a second. I knew then that she was telling the truth. I held out my hand and she took it. She was like ice. I shivered.

"What happens now?"

"I sparkle in sunlight, I am extremely fast and extremely strong. My diet has changed as well. I don't eat food anymore."

"Blood?"

"Yes. I am afraid so. It tastes so good. I hate it. I hate knowing that I have to kill a human to feed."

"I'm sorry. Are you hungry right now?"

"Yes," she stated truthfully, "the nurses smell delicious. You don't. I'm sorry, Mia, but you really don't smell good."

"Oh, I suppose that is a good thing though?"

"It means I will not hurt you. You smell salty, but too salty for my liking. Mia, I'm going to Forks for a while."

"Where is that?"

"About 3 hours' drive away, on the Olympic peninsula. I am part of some sort of army and apparently we have to attack a group of vampires who feed off animal blood."

"Bree, please don't be part of that!" I begged.

"I have no choice. I will be killed otherwise. I will go, and surrender immediately. I'd like to learn their ways, feed off animals instead. I will come back for you, Mia, I promise."

"Alright. Please be careful, Bree. I'd hate to lose you," I replied. Bree was my best friend, she'd never let me down. We were a team, a force to be reckoned with. She would be back for me, but I was still worried.

"I'm basically indestructible. I will come back as soon as it is safe. I love you, Mia."

"I love you too, Bree. Be safe."

"Take care of yourself."

We hugged each other one last time and Bree disappeared out of the window just as one of the nurses came in.

"Everything alright, sweetheart?" she asked. She wasn't too bad.

"Nightmare. I opened my window to get some fresh air," I replied, not moving from my spot from the window. I saw Bree streaking away.

"Perhaps we ought to get you back to bed," suggested the nurse, shutting the window. I allowed her to lead me back to bed. Bree was alive, and it was enough for me. She'd never broken a promise to me yet. She would be back, I was sure of it. But that niggling part at the back of my mind had that sliver of doubt. Only time would tell.

* * *

"Welcome back, Amelia. My name is Dr Joanne Anderson. Do you know where you are?" a cheerful voice interrupted my stare-a-thon with the wall that I had been partaking in since waking up a few hours ago. I groaned internally, before turning to face the very tall woman standing at the foot of my bed. Be nice, Amelia. She's just doing her job.

"ICU?" I guessed. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure that out. Too much machinery, heavy glass windows and total silence aside from medical equipment? If this was not ICU, then I was a Jackass Penguin and Bree was still alive. She'd never returned from that fight. I knew in my heart that she was gone, but part of my always hoped that she would return.

"Correct. Do you know which city you are in?"

I stare at her stupidly. Enough already. I might be sick, but I am not dense. "Seattle."

"Not actually. You were airlifted to Central Rochester Hospital ten days ago," she replied. Huh.

"Rochester, as in Washington?" I was surprised. It was a small town, less than 2000 people.

"No, in New York."

"Oh," was all I managed. It clicked, it was home to one of the best experts in CF. I guessed this enthusiastic giant of a woman was said expert.

"Welcome. You've been out of it for the past few days. Your lungs are not too happy right now," she trilled.

"I know. I feel like I've been hit by the Titanic. Or a Boeing at the very least," I muttered sarcastically.

"You're going to be here for a while I'm afraid. Your old doctor in Washington didn't know what else to do with you."

"Where's my violin?" I asked. I hated leaving it at the home when I was in hospital. Dr Anderson paused from her paperwork and looked up at me, confusion clouding her features.

"I'll phone your social worker and ask her," she stated, "do you play?"

"Yes I do. My mother was a violinist."

"That is so cool. Have you ever been to Carnegie Hall?" she queried, having stopped looking through the paperwork that I assumed was my hospital file.

"No," I replied quietly, before looking out of the window. I hated discussing my parents. She must have sensed this, and quickly moved on. She promised to have me out of ICU within the next five weeks. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Promises, shmomises. She was the first adult, after Mrs Miller, to have kept her word. I was out three and a half weeks later, having spent a total of five weeks in that place. I developed ICU psychosis, which probably spurred things on a bit.

* * *

"I just want to go outside for a few minutes. Five minutes tops. I need some fresh air. I'm going crazy in here," I pleaded. I was desperate to get out for a bit. Cabin fever was starting to beat me. Dr Anderson looked at me pityingly, before denying me the only thing I have every asked for. I'd been here for four months, why was it so difficult to let me go?

"Amelia, you are too sick to go outside. You will get worse. You're one cough away from landing up in ICU," replied Dr Anderson, as gently as she could. I wanted to scream, but sadly she was actually right. I was sick again. I hated this stupid disease. I tried again for extra benefit.

"Dr Anderson, I have not left this ward in nearly four months. It's visiting hours now, no one will notice that I'm gone. I've had my physio for today. All I am asking is to go on the balcony for a little while. I'm not asking to go to the shop down the road, although I desperately need to get some things, I'm not even asking to sit in the hospital garden, I'm just asking for you to give me my balcony key so that I can open the door and breathe some fresh air, not stale hospital air," I was nearly in tears by now. Do not break down in tears, Amelia. Tears are for the weak. Don't you dare let anyone see you cry.

"It is out of the question, Amelia. Your lungs are unhappy," the good doctor states with finality. There was no point in arguing further. I sighed and coughed loudly, turning my head away so that no one would see me cry. Dammit Amelia, pull yourself together! You are not a wimp!

Someone knocked on my door and a whole group of people accompanied Dr Sanders into my room after Dr Anderson told them that no one will visit me. Gee thanks Dr A, way to make a girl feel great about herself. This stupid conference meant that people would be barging in and out of my room for the rest of the week, asking questions about me, about which gene mutation I had, asking about my family history. I knew nothing. My parents were dead. My best friend was dead. I was soon to be dead. What did it matter?

An extremely gorgeous couple caught my eye. He was obviously the doctor, she was his wife because it was clear that she didn't know what was potting, if the confused expression on her face was anything to go by. She was trying to be subtle about staring around my room, and failing miserably. They were pale, but I didn't want to stare too long. I stifled a grin as I recalled last seeing that kind of paleness on Bree. A vampire working in health care? Please. What a ridiculous notion. The people eventually left my room. Thank heavens. I needed my space. I also needed a bath. I just wished that Dr Anderson would come clean and tell me when I could expect to die, this was starting to get very annoying.


	2. Chapter 2

**Amelia gets her PEG Feeding Tube Removed (Part 1)**

 **In this one shot (which will be uploaded in two parts), Amelia decides to have her PEG removed and approaches Carlisle about it. He reflects briefly on meeting Amelia and making the decision the make her a part of the family, with some help from the most unlikely member of the Cullen clan. Special thanks to my very own (soon to be) Dr Samodien for generously allowing me to borrow her name.**

 **POV - Carlisle.**

* * *

From where I was sitting in my study, I could hear Amelia pacing up and down her bedroom. I grinned to myself. My youngest daughter was going to wear a hole in the wooden flooring if she didn't stop soon. I had left my door propped open, waiting for her to come to me. The rest of my family was out and about. Esme had gone to Port Angeles to fetch Amelia's medication. There was a delay at the hospital's pharmacy, where we usually got her medication from. It was sent from Seattle, but due to some or other mix-up, it had been sent to the wrong hospital. For reasons known only to themselves, the hospital wanted to send it back to Seattle so that it could be resent to Forks. It was a ridiculous notion, but we had one of two options, either wait for it to arrive in Forks, or fetch it ourselves. Esme preferred to keep a well-stocked drug supply for our daughter, and decided rather than wait three additional days for the medication to arrive, she'd fetch it herself.

Edward, Bella and Renesmee were out on the reservation again, it was one of the pack members' birthday, Jared I think they said. The rest of my children had gone to Seattle, Blythe included. One of my colleagues was now one of my children. It was a strange concept, her medical knowledge and capabilities far surpassed mine, even although she was nearly two centuries younger than me. Blythe had been living with us officially for a few weeks, her brief absence while she returned to Germany leaving a void within the family. Amelia took their separation the hardest, Esme was a close second. Alice had been resolute that Blythe would return within a week of leaving, and she was, as per usual, correct.

Alice had told us a few weeks previously that Amelia wanted to remove her PEG feeding tube. It was providing her with enteral nutrition, as she needed the extra supplements to keep her weight up. Her appetite had all but diminished and her weight was plummeting. 50kg, or 110 pounds was our goal. She weighed substantially less. It worried me, but any intervention was merely palliative at this stage. She'd given up the fight, and was about to ask me to remove the one thing that kept her going. I could understand it from her perspective – its mere presence was prolonging her human life and forcing her to endure more unnecessary suffering in the process by providing us with a means of enteral nutrition. But to remove it completely?

I recalled the first time I laid eyes on her, so sickly and frail, but with an internal resolve that would not be silenced. Esme had suggested making her a part of our family within a day, but I was hesitant. I'd read Amelia's file, I'd heard Dr Anderson telling Dr Sanders that her young patient was refusing a transplant. She had respect for the seemingly fearless teenager whose grip on reality was unfailing. Like Joanne Anderson, I knew that the likelihood of Amelia being stable enough to undergo the minimum-eight hour surgery was statistically unfavourable. Lung transplants had the highest rejection rate out of any donated organ of the human body. Reality was that even if she survived the surgery and the extremely critical post-operative period, she would have invariably fallen into the category of patients who go into chronic rejection within the five year mark.

As much as I wanted to make Esme happy and make this dying fifteen year old a part of our family, her happiness would have been short lived, and I would have a wife who grappled with the loss of another of her children for eternity. She mourned for her human son, who had passed after only two days, and while she had moved on from it, he was never far from her thoughts. Only time would have told how long Amelia would have survived for. I was not sure that I could do that to the love of my life, to subject her to that kind of pain. Bringing Bella into the family was different, as she was Edward's mate. Chalk and cheese, I had tried to rationalise with Esme.

It wasn't until Esme had gone to visit Amelia during visiting hours that I finally understood the level of Esme's feelings for the young girl. Edward and Alice helped of course. As my first companion, Edward was my sounding board for a lot of major decisions. We had an understanding that I did not have with any of my other children. I quickly learned that my children had been fooling both Esme and myself with their plans to decorate the empty spare bedroom next to my study.

According to Alice, Amelia was already a part of our family. Her decision to not have a lung transplant was all but cemented, but as no one had broached the topic of immortality with her yet, Alice could not determine her presence as an immortal member of the Cullen family. Jacob had wrestled the phone away from Alice and informed me that he could accept Amelia being changed when the time was right. Rosalie had then screeched and lunged for the phone, only to inform me that I had better be bringing her baby sister home, and that if it came to it, she'd change Amelia herself. There was a loud squabble until someone had the sense of mind to put the phone onto loudspeaker and I could speak to all of my children at once. I was pleasantly surprised to hear a unanimous decision for once. There was always someone disagreeing with someone else about something. The vote to change Bella was nearly a full out war. Rosalie and Edward had been outvoted, but both were equally determined to make their opinions understood to the human in question.

Rosalie's decisiveness was surprising, as she had been the daughter who had been the most difficult and the most bitter about her change. She begged me to change Emmett, if only for selfish reasons, but she refused to condemn someone else to this life, someone who might otherwise have had a choice. Were they aware of their potential sister's failing health? It seemed that for once, I would be the one outnumbered. I hated to damn someone as well, but Amelia's change would have been because there was no alternative, other than death.

"Rosalie, why are you so supportive of this decision?" I had asked, mystified. My eldest daughter was stubborn and set in her ways, why change her mind now?

"Because I can't stand the thought of losing my baby sister," she had replied quietly.

"Your baby sister?"

"Yes. She is one of us. Carlisle, I can't help but feel attached to her already. She needs us." _And I need a sister, not a friend._ The unspoken words were there. Rosalie would forever be rebuked for her less than friendly attitude towards Bella, perceiving her to be a threat. She knew that an incident involving Bella would be responsible for an untimely move from Forks, and she had not been wrong. She took no satisfaction in being right. Rosalie hated change, it reminded her too much of her immortality – her body remaining unchanged while the rest of the world aged.

"We'll have to move, you know that, kitty?" I reminded her, calling her by the familiar nickname born out of affection that never failed to bring a smile to her face. She was like a cat in some ways, lithe and graceful, but every inch the predator she was when aggravated.

"I know," I pictured her smile, her nose scrunching up as it always did when I called her that, "but it will be worth it."

"You really want this?"

"Yes."

"Alright."

Alice had started shrieking gleefully again. I suddenly had adoption papers arriving in my email inbox. Always prepared was Alice. That day, Esme and I gained another daughter, one who would be uniquely challenging in her own right. Round-the-clock care dictated the next few months, and would continue to do so until Amelia's heart stopped beating. It is said that one cannot miss what one does not know, like how someone born deaf cannot miss hearing, having never experienced it. The loss is always more acute to have had something, and then lost it.

I didn't know what I was missing until Amelia joined us, I didn't fully fathom how much she meant to us all until we almost lost her in Rochester, and again in Forks, barely a month later. Amelia completed our somewhat motley accumulation of vampires that we called family, something which Esme remarked on frequently. My wife adored her human child, her joy at being able to care for someone was almost tangible. Our children loved their sister fiercely, determined to go to the ends of the earth to ensure her safety. I loved my new daughter with every fibre of my being. There was always room in my heart for more love. As a family, we watched our beloved human gradually come out of her safe little cocoon that she had constructed to safeguard herself, and bore witness to her flourishing with each passing day. When we first saw her, she was burdened and unloved, carrying around the ghosts of her past to her detriment. Now she was free, her past no longer haunting her, and very much loved.

Now in April, three months since Esme and I had met her, we barely recognised her - she was a shadow of her former self, but in a good way. She had had a confidence about her and her fighting spirit had returned for a while. Since the concert, she had gradually lost that spirit again, lost that determination. She had little choice but to admit defeat, as her disease took its toll one final time, ravaging her body for the last time ever. She was exhausted from the fight. I didn't blame her one iota, how did she manage to continue the fight for so long, alone? With family by her side, she fought. She fought for Esme, for her siblings, and for me. She dragged herself through each hurdle that crossed her path, if only for Esme's sake. She had finally managed to cross off an item from her bucket list: to love someone, and be loved in return.

* * *

From her bedroom, Amelia sighed decisively and walked towards her bedroom door. Here it comes.

"Come in, sweetheart," I called, hearing her pause at the study. I glanced up and smiled wryly at her, her hand still raised in a fist to knock. She was ever the polite one, always knocking and waiting for permission to enter, knowing fully well that we could hear her.

"Can we chat?" she asked softly, staring at the floor as if it were the most fascinating thing on earth. I put my pen down and pushed myself away from my desk, walking over to the couch, a silent encouragement. Hesitantly, Amelia sat down too and stared at her hands.

"What's bothering you?" I queried, knowing that my dark-haired human daughter needed to speak to me on her own terms. I supposed that to an outsider, I could be misconstrued as having a favourite child. I had seven others, Bella and Blythe included, all of whom were vampires and therefore more capable of looking after themselves. Amelia was different. The others were frozen forever, but she was not. That in itself made her vulnerable. She was our number one priority. She had different needs, how could one treat their children the same when they were so vastly different that they were practically worlds apart?

"I want my PEG tube removed," Amelia stated in a rush, obviously wanting to get it out of the way before she lost her nerve.

"Why?"

"Because it needs to go. I'm stopping the feeds. It serves no purpose. How are we going to get it out when I am turned?"

"We can remove it just before, or at the beginning of the change," I stated confidently. I saw Amelia's resolute determination falter, before she gathered herself together and fought back, refusing to allow me to change her mind. Atta girl, I knew she had it in her.

"I want it gone. Knowing Alice, she had already foreseen this conversation and knows that I am quite determined to have it taken out."

"Of course she has," I smile.

"How do we proceed?" my daughter was all business-like now.

"We'll get you admitted the night before in a regular room. Private, of course. The next morning, you'll have it removed. Depending on how you fared, you will either be discharged the same day, or the next day."

"General anaesthesia or sedation? I read that you can have it removed via sedation," she commented.

"Sedation is an option, but you are a sedation risk because of your poor lungs. You're a GA risk as well but it may be the better option here."

"How is general anaesthesia a better option?"

"Sedation gives you a degree of control over your respiratory system with or without impairing your cardiac function. I'd be more inclined to send you to theatre under general so that we can have total control over your cardio-respiratory functions. Your cough reflex remains largely intact during sedation," I explained patiently. Comprehension dawned on her face.

"An intact cough reflex is not ideal, especially considering how much coughing I do on a daily basis," she remarked airily, "so when do we remove it?"

"We'll have a consult with Dr Westsmythe," my daughter's face remained impassive, "and consult with Dr Anderson, as well as an anaesthetist... or three."

"Team Amelia, huh?"

"Team Amelia."

* * *

"Are you ready for tomorrow, Amelia?" queried Dr Samodien. She was a kindly woman, and one of the best anaesthetists in the state of Washington. She was also as tough as nails, and it had been a hard sell to get her to consent to knocking Amelia out. In her opinion, and the general consensus of all of the medical personnel who were a part of 'Team Amelia', the risks far outweighed the benefits.

"Just Mia, and yes, I am actually. I think this is this first time I have ever voluntarily spent any degree of time in hospital," quipped Amelia. My daughter had just been admitted for her overnight stay, and was cheerfully sitting cross-legged on her bed with her right arm extended while I set up an IV line for her.

"Well, _Just Mia_ , has everything been explained to you?"

"I've been to an operating theatre more times this year alone than I have gone to the movie theatre. I'm a pro."

"Amelia, you realise that this is a risk, right?"

"Yes. But it has to come out."

"Why is that? You can simply stop the enteral nutrition, rather than remove the PEG feeding tube completely," she commented, paging through Amelia's hefty patient file to find her anaesthesia records.

"She wants it out," I confirmed, pulling out the needle of the IV line and taping the casing down, "if it's what she wants, I'm inclined to get it over and done with."

"Alright then. Let's see, you coded twice in New York with a minor blood vessel rupture. So chilled, I've got my work cut out for me," she muttered sarcastically, "of all the cases to drag me out to the back of beyond for, Carlisle, you pick the most complex case for a relatively routine procedure, and the patient just so happens to be your daughter. Are you for real?"

"Yes," I replied nonchalantly, disposing of the sharp equipment in the sharps bin and removing my gloves with a satisfying snap. Amelia grinned cheekily at the anaesthetist, who poked her tongue out in return.

"I swear you are going to give me grey hairs tomorrow, _Just Mia_. You owe me a bottle of hair dye. I'm thinking of going platinum blonde," she stated. I blinked in confusion. Amelia dissolved into giggles, which ended in a coughing spasm. Dr Samodien raised an eyebrow, "One new grey hair already! No more laughing, young lady!"


	3. Chapter 3

**Amelia gets her PEG Feeding Tube Removed (Part 2)**

 **Part 2 of the surgery. Many thanks to the Maxillofacial and Oral Surgery department for making us learn anaesthesiology, so that I could accurately write out the anaesthetic protocol, and making us witness it more than once. In my field, we are working in and around the mouth, so our intubations are done through the nose, rather than down the throat. Endotracheal tubes get in the way when you are trying to reconstruct someone's broken jaw or remove a massive tumour, or remove someone's wisdom teeth.**

 **POV - Carlisle.**

* * *

"Carlisle, are you sure about this?" Dr Samodien's voice was one of concerne. The anaesthetist was cracking her knuckles, before tucking a whisp of hair back under her headscarf.

"Amelia is stubborn," I say by way of explanation, "and I have my concerns about the PEG becoming infected. Saadiqah, it might not be the most ideal situation, but it needs to come out."

"She may not make it off the table, you know that right? We're talking about putting a severely compromised patient under general anaesthesia. She is in cardiac failure, and her lungs are seriously bad."

"We know that, and we are prepared. If for some reason she doesn't survive the surgery, at least her suffering will be over and her death is quick and painless."

"An infection might be easier to manage if we can catch it early. But catch it too late, with her compromised immune system, it's not a favourable outcome," Dr Samodien mused out loud, "I can understand to an extent as to why you are doing this, but to subject your daughter to a theatre visit? Is that really a good idea?"

"Amelia knows what she is doing."

"Carlisle, I will assess Amelia in the morning. If she has had a bad night, I won't do it."

"Saadiqah."

"She could live another few months without the surgery. If you disagree with my course of treatment, find yourself a new anaesthetist. I took an oath as well."

"Fair enough," I conceded. Even I had my doubts about the surgery, but Alice was convinced that Amelia would be alright. I hoped that she was right, because there was no way I could get Amelia out in time to change her if something went wrong.

"We'll reassess in the morning. If she is stable, I will do it. If she's not, then surgery's off," Dr Samodien was resolute in her decision. I would be too, if Amelia wasn't my daughter.

"Thank you."

* * *

"She had a good night," stated one of the night nurses. I smiled at her in response.

"I am glad to hear that," I stated, flipping through Amelia's file to read the notes, "pre-operative fasting?"

"Yes, since 10pm last night. She ate some toast, she said she wasn't hungry."

"That sounds like Amelia," I chuckled, checking my watch. It was now 7am. She'd not eaten for nine hours, which was good. We requested six hours for solids, but with her surgery scheduled at 8.30am, we generally requested that patients eat their last meal before surgery at 10pm the night before, "I'd just like to check her blood glucose levels quickly. Fasting and Diabetes are not a good match."

"Good morning, Carlisle," called Dr Samodien as she breezed into Amelia's room.

"Good morning to you too, Saadiqah," I replied, following her into my daughter's room, armed with her patient file. Greetings were exchanged. Amelia gave me a hug.

"Did you have a good night rest, Amelia?" the anaesthetist asked. My human daughter sent back a megawatt smile as Dr Samodien performed the routine pre-operative examination on theatre patients.

"I had a great evening, thanks. It was rather peaceful. Woke up a couple of times with the coughing but nothing out of the ordinary," Amelia stated.

"I am glad to hear that," smiled Dr Samodien, "so you'll be going to theatre in just over an hour. Are you ready?"

"Yes, I do believe I am."

"Do you have any questions?"

Amelia fell silent and nodded shyly, before glancing up at me and averting her gaze.

"Shall I give you ladies some privacy?" I queried, taking the hint.

"Yes please," they chorused.

"Dad, please don't let Mom in just yet," added Amelia.

"Alright. Just call when you are ready. The others are here."

"Thanks," she smiled softly in acknowledgement.

I stood by the nurse's station, curiosity getting the better of me.

"What's on your mind, Miss Cullen?" queried Dr Samodien gently.

"I just have a couple of questions if that is okay?" Amelia queried hesitantly, her beautiful face full of anxiety.

"Fire away."

"Well, none of my previous anaesthetists ever really told me what was going on. So what will happen during the procedure?"

"I will have you on the table and ready for anaesthesia at 8.30. I will put some drugs in your IV line to make you sleep, then give you 100% oxygen for a couple of minutes. Then I intubate you – I put a tube in your throat to breathe for you. The tube is hooked up to a unit that provides oxygen mixed with some anaesthetic gases which will keep you asleep until I reverse the anaesthesia with a drug. Then we'll wake you up and when you fight the intubation, we can extubate you and let you breathe on your own. You will probably remember being pretty groggy and disorientated the last time?"

"I was sedated for a couple of hours the last few times, but yes, I remember feeling hideous," spoke my daughter.

"Exactly, which is why we tell patients not to drive or exert themselves for 24 hours, and not to make any important decisions."

"Important decisions like what?"

"Something legally binding, like, I don't know, eloping to Vegas? When the anaesthetic wears off, you're going to be in for one heck of a surprise," joked Dr Samodien. She was right though, we did instruct patients not to make any important decisions for 24 hours.

"Ah man, I was really hoping to hook up with the hot male nurse in the ER in the locker room after my surgery," replied Amelia, deadpan. Dr Samodien howled with laughter. I mentally scanned through the emergency room staff, but no one came to mind. Perhaps Amelia was thinking of someone else, although if she thought she could 'hook up' with a male of any kind, she had another thing coming.

"Is your dad outside?" queried Dr Samodien.

"He has a habit of," my daughter raised her voice, "eavesdropping!"

I popped my head around the door. My daughter and the anaesthetist packed out laughing again. I shook my head in amusement. It was good to see Amelia looking so upbeat.

"Your mother is going to wear a hole in the flooring. Can she please come in?" I asked Amelia. She nodded.

"I will see you in an hour or so, Amelia. Sit tight, don't die on me and we could perhaps be friends," advised Dr Samodien, exiting the room with a cheery wave to Esme and the others. By others, I mean the whole family, minus Alice, who opted to wait in the surgery waiting room with Jasper and Bella.

"Squirt!" boomed Emmett as he bounced into Amelia's room, an impression worthy of Alice. He was certainly making up for her absence in endless amounts of enthusiasm. He was followed by Esme, Rosalie and Blythe.

"Hey Hulk," Amelia greeted him quietly, hugging Esme as she did so.

Renesmee shyly walked in with Edward, grinning when Amelia caught her eye and patted the bed. My darling granddaughter climbed up on the bed and hugged her aunt tightly, refusing to let her go. Her aunt responded in kind, before silently begging Edward to help her move Renesmee so that they both could sit comfortably. We sat and chatted aimlessly for a while, before Alair poked her head in.

"Alair!" beamed Amelia.

"Mia! Good morning!" she exclaimed brightly, "oh, hello other Cullens. Just a heads up kiddo, we're going to be taking you to theatre in the next five or so minutes. So you'd better get out of your jammies and into your super sexy, one size fits all hospital gown so that you can flash the entire world."

"The highlight of my day!" cheered Amelia sarcastically.

"But of course, it's the best part. Get dressed kiddo. Carlisle, you need to get your butt down to the theatre so that you can change. I love my men in scrubs," Alair gave an exaggerated wink. The Cullens packed out laughing.

"I guess I'd better come with you to theatre then, Amelia," teased Esme, "and make sure Alair doesn't become your new mother!"

"Eight kids and a grandbaby. Shucks, I'm too young for that!" exclaimed Alair, "seriously though, the orderlies will be here in about a minute. I can hear them coming with a bed."

"I'd better go and change then," I declared, "Amelia, do you want one of the others to accompany you to theatre?"

"Won't that be a bit hard with all the blood?" queried Amelia, picking up the hospital gown and unfolding it, before removing her socks and folding them. Edward, Emmett and Renesmee left the room. Blythe, Rosalie and Esme shook their heads. Rosalie helped Amelia change out of her pyjamas and into a hospital gown.

"It'll just be walking with you to theatre and waiting until you fall asleep. They'll leave then."

"She's never had someone accompany her to theatre. With her being sixteen, she is considered old enough to go alone, but she really wants a familiar face," called Edward, "Esme, she wants you to take her."

"Edward says you want me to go with you?" asked Esme. Amelia nodded.

"It's settled then," I smiled, hugging Amelia one last time before leaving, nodding to the orderlies as they entered my daughter's room. I could hear Alair explaining the procedure to Esme. She would be coming with as well, having volunteered to keep the others updated how things were progressing.

* * *

"Ok Mia, time to switch beds," instructed Dr Samodien. Amelia moved across to the operating bed and watched her bed be wheeled out of the theatre. The anaesthetist busied herself by drawing up emergency drugs – adrenaline, atropine and succinylcholine. These three were critical to every anaesthetic procedure.

"Hey Dad," she greeted, "Alair's right, you do look dashing in scrubs.

"Yes dear," I replied, kissing her forehead affectionately. Esme stifled a giggle. I mock glared at her. She wriggled her eyebrows suggestively. My wife needed to get her head out of the gutter. I was grateful for the easy banter. Esme had been worried about the surgery and had spent a good deal of last night dry sobbing in my arms. Rosalie had also been worried, and not even Emmett could drag her out of the doldrums. I chatted briefly to the surgeon who would be removing the Percutaneous Endoscopic Gastrostomy feeding tube - Dr Westsmythe had been delegated that task - while one of the theatre nurses placed various monitoring electrodes on Amelia's chest. The typical patient had four. Amelia had eight.

"Did you give her premedication?" Dr Westsmythe asked Dr Samodien as he scrubbed in. She was washing her hands and glanced up at him.

"No. She's one of those alarm bell patients. In cases like Amelia's, we use premedication with caution. I assessed her earlier, she was quite relaxed. I felt that there was no need," she stated, "with her severe lung disease, I'm already hesitant to give it. She's been around the block a couple of times, so she's used to it. I'm confident that I made the right choice."

"I agree. Will you inject something later?"

"Probably. I'll let you know if I do. I'm going to give her 200mg of Solu-Cortef to play it safe, she's displaying Cushingoid features. I'd rather err on the side of caution."

"I agree."

"I'll chat to you again now, it's going to be a tricky intubation with her compromised airway. I'm going to go grey, I swear."

"You say that every time, Saadiqah. You've yet to go grey," he joked.

"Oh please, how would you know? You never even see my hair!" laughed Dr Samodien as she exited the scrub room, yanking on a pair of nitrile examination gloves and going to check her anaesthetic equipment.

"Are you ready, Amelia?" she asked softly. Amelia nodded and reached for her mother's hand and grasped it firmly.

"You're going to feel a burning sensation in your arm ok? It's the anaesthetic, I'm sorry," apologised the anaesthetist, working quickly. My daughter grimaced and tensed up as the Propofol, an intravenous induction agent, burned her veins. Fentanyl and an opioid were administered simultaneously.

"Just relax, sweetheart," I soothed, reaching across to stroke her forehead. The muscle relaxants were then administered. This would relax her vocal cords so that they would not close up when Dr Samodien tried to intubate her, as well as facilitating ventilation so that she wouldn't fight the machinery, and optimise the surgery. Gradually, Amelia's eyes began to flutter and they shut, her grip slackening on Esme's hand as she succumbed to the anaesthetic.

"Esme, I'm afraid you'll have to come with me now," spoke Alair. Esme nodded and pulled down her mask to kiss Amelia one last time before hugging me tightly. I returned the embrace and kissed her softly.

"Take care of her, Carlisle," she implored.

"We will, you know we will," I replied. Behind me, Dr Samodien had lifted Amelia's chin up to open up her airway and give her oxygen for two minutes, flooding her lungs with the gas so that she could get Amelia intubated before she became hypoxic. With the muscle relaxants working, a ventilator would be breathing for her. Time was of the essence. Anaesthetists always said that this was the most hair-raising part of the anaesthetic procedure.

"Please hand me an ET tube," asked Dr Samodien, setting the oxygen mask aside and removing Amelia's nasal cannula as well. She picked up the laryngoscope and inserted it into Amelia's throat. One of the theatre nurses lubricated an endotracheal tube and handed it to Dr Samodien, who slowly inserted it into my daughter's trachea. She attached it to the anaesthetic machine and bagged her manually, assessing the rising and falling of Amelia's chest, "I'm in."

She continued to bag her while one of the nurses inflated the cuff that held the tube in place in Amelia's trachea. I placed eye drops in Amelia's eyes and taped them with surgical tape while the switch from manual ventilation to mechanical ventilation was made. With the tube securely fastened, the anaesthetic gases where turned on to keep Amelia anaesthetised. More opioids were given, this time it was morphine, and a solution of crystalloid and colloid IV fluids were hung up to keep my human daughter hydrated and maintain her electrolytes. She then administered some steroids to prevent a steroid crisis. Long-term steroid users always ran the risk of a crisis in surgery as their bodies failed to produce sufficient cortisol.

While this was going on, other theatre nurses were prepping Amelia for the surgery, by covering her with surgical cloths and disinfecting the area around the PEG tube.

"It's looking a little red," remarked Dr Westsmythe, "could just be from the puckering of the skin."

"I'm concerned about infection," I stated, knowing fully well that, in spite of our best efforts, the tube was in fact infected.

"You take such good care of the tube," stated Dr Westsmythe, "I'd be very surprised if it is."

"True, but Amelia is severely compromised. Nothing surprises us anymore where she is concerned."

Dr Westsmythe nodded, before addressing Dr Samodien. "Are you ready?"

"Yes, Amelia's ready."

"First ampoule of local anaesthetic going in, "Dr Westsmythe proceeded to infiltrate the area and waited a few moments, "Four ampoules of lignocaine administered."

"With or without a vasoconstrictor?"

"With a vasoconstrictor. Adrenaline. Scalpel please."

* * *

"Hey Amelia, sweetheart, can you open your eyes up for me?" asked Dr Samodien, gently patting Amelia's face in order to elicit a response from her. Amelia blinked a few times, groggy from the anaesthetic.

"Amelia, wake up," I said, taking my daughter's face in my hands. Bleary eyed, she focused on me briefly, her head lolling to the side. She struggled a bit against the ET tube, a sure sign that we could extubate her. Dr Samodien suctioned her throat quickly, before extubating her and snapping a face mask over her head.

"On my count," Dr Samodien instructed. Four of us gathered around the bed, two per side, preparing to move Amelia off the operating table and onto the bed that had been brought back in, "one, two three."

The move was effortless and quick, moving my light-weight daughter requiring little exertion on anyone's part. She was moved to Recovery where her reflexes were tested, and she was left to sleep it off. About hour later, Dr Samodien felt comfortable enough to move Amelia back to her room. Esme, Emmett, Rosalie and Blythe were waiting for her. Someone had brought her some balloons with 'Get well soon' emblazoned on them from the hospital gift shop. There was a plethora of stuffed animals on her bedside table. Emmett was wearing a t-shirt with the words 'I'm the big brother' printed on it. His mischievous grin made me raise an eyebrow.

"Is it just me, or did the hospital gift shop explode in here?" I queried drily. Dr Samodien took it in and started laughing.

"Something to that effect," muttered Blythe.

"Alice?"

"Nope, Emmett," chimed in Rosalie, pointing at her goofball of a mate.

"My squirt needed some stuffies!" he pouted, holding up the polar bear he was holding.

"You do realise that Jemima is going to rip them apart?" I stated.

"It's ok. Amelia needs them now, Jemima can have them later," he responded cheerfully. I heard a rustle of sheets as Esme tucked Amelia's favourite teddy bear under the sheets next to her, and kissed her forehead.

"She's alright, Es," I murmured, walking over to my wife and enfolding her in my arms, feeling her dry sob against me.

"I was so scared," she cried, her emotions getting the better of her.

"The tube was infected, but we got it early and sent some swabs for cultures just in case. Amelia's on antibiotics now. She is going to be just fine," I soothed, rubbing her back in a circular motion. A muted whimper of pain sounded and we broke apart to witness Amelia stir slightly. She coughed loudly, a horrible noise that made me want to gather my daughter up in my arms and hold her close. It pained us all to witness her suffer. I'd give anything to go through what she was experiencing, just to ease her suffering.

"Uh oh," muttered Dr Samodien, reaching behind her for an emesis bowl. Blythe passed her Amelia's 'vomit bucket' as Emmett had christened the large, grey plastic bowl reserved exclusively for the regurgitated contents of his baby sister's stomach. I eased Amelia into a sitting position while Dr Samodien removed the oxygen mask from Amelia's face.

"Take a deep breath, Amelia," I instructed, hoping that the fresh air would bring up whatever it was that was making her nauseous. She dry heaved several times, bringing up a lot of mucus from her chest. Finally, sobbing loudly, she threw up last night's 10pm meal. When it was finally done, she was shaking. Blythe undid the covers and placed some socks on Amelia's icy feet to help her warm up and we placed several blankets over her. She was in a lot of pain, the retching spasms having aggravated her new surgical site on her abdomen.

"She hates opioids," warned Blythe.

"I don't have much of choice. She is in too much pain," stated Dr Samodien as she injected morphine and an anti-emetic into Amelia's drip.

"Do it," I said, tucking my daughter into bed and holding her face in my hands. She was in a lot of pain, but fortunately, she was still groggy as anything. It didn't take long for the morphine to kick in and she fell asleep again.

* * *

"Thank you, Saadiqah, for everything," I thanked the anaesthetist as she discharged Amelia from her care and into the care of the ward.

"You are most welcome, Carlisle. Next time you want me to consult on a case, please can it be in Hawaii, and not the rainiest town in the continental US?" she joked as she signed the last piece of paperwork.

"I'll do my best," I chuckled. We shook hands as I walked her to her car.

"Take care of Amelia, she's a special girl," she advised.

"We will," I promised. She got into her car and I waved her off, watching her exit the hospital parking lot and make the trip back to Seattle. Yes, we would take care of Amelia, for the rest of eternity


	4. Chapter 4

**Simon's Reflection**

 **This is a cute one-shot about Amelia and, to a lesser extent, her biological parents. She is featured as a foetus, then at age 4 months, 2 years and then 2 and a half, and ends with her at 16. One of my readers on WattPad has requested that I continue with this, so I will extend it at some point, picking up from where it ends.**

 **POV - Simon.**

* * *

"Let's just go over that ending once more," I stated, "from bar 365."

At my command, the orchestra launched into the ending of the _1812 Overture_ by Tchaikovsky. I glanced to my left, keeping a watchful eye on my lead violinist. She'd been taking strain recently, and looked more and more gaunt. She looked ill, and I was concerned for her health. From little I had gathered from the very private Abigail Theodore, there were no marriage problems. Peter, her best friend, confirmed it as well. Something was bothering her, and whatever it was, it had Peter in protective mode. He stuck to her like glue, refusing to let her out of his sight. I doubted that it was an affair between the two of them, they were more like brother and sister than anything else, but something was definitely up.

"Great job everyone. See you all tomorrow for the concert!" I dismissed the orchestra with a flick of my baton. They were a great bunch of musicians, more like a giant family. I suppose I was regarded as the elderly grandfather of the team, the eldest by far. The orchestra members were my children, their children became my pseudo-grandchildren. I nodded at Ariané, the newest member of our family. She played second clarinet, and like me, hailed from Louisiana, and again like me, had ancestry from Haiti. We had an understanding, the two of us.

"Simon, may I have a word?" Abigail's accented voice cut through my reverie. She was emotional about something – her French-Canadian accent always became more prominent when she was upset, angry or worried.

"Certainly, Abigail," I replied, "my office?"

"Yes please."

"Are you alright?" I queried gently when we were finally seated in my office. I'd recently purchased a sofa for it, it was more comfortable to sit there and compose music than it was to sit behind a desk. The pair of us now sat on it.

"I'm pregnant," she stated, before bursting into tears.

"Congratulations, _mon Cherie,_ " I smiled, bringing her into a hug. It all made sense now, "how far along are you?"

"Sixteen weeks," she whispered.

"That's great! I didn't know you'd gone for more IVF."

"I haven't gone since the last miscarriage. What if I lose this one too?" she wailed.

I sighed softly. Christopher and Abigail had been married for ten years, and had spent the last eight of them trying to have a baby. Two attempts at In Vitro Fertilisation and one attempt at Gamete Intra Fallopian Transfer had all but failed. Six years ago, Abigail had successfully fallen pregnant, but had lost the baby at five months gestation, a little boy who was to be called Jeremy. She had developed a condition known as pre-eclampsia. Further attempts at pregnancy had failed.

"They always say that when you stop trying, it happens. Medicine had advanced in leaps and bounds in the last six years," I said, trying to lighten the mood. I could understand Abigail's fears, what if she lost this one again? It would devastate both of them. At thirty five, her biological clock was ticking loudly, "how have you been feeling?"

"Like utter crap. I throw up all the time. I have barely enough hormones to sustain this pregnancy. My thigh hurts from having daily hormone shots. Chris thinks it's marvellous of course. He's not the idiot holding on to the toilet rim for dear life!"

"Abs, you think it is marvellous too, I know you do. It'll be worth it, I promise. You're going to have a healthy baby at the end of this. I have a good feeling about that. So you must be due towards the end of April?" I attempted to do the math in my head.

"May 10," she stated, "it's a girl."

"I am so happy for you. I take it we need to sort out some maternity leave for you then?"

"I think that might be necessary, yes. I just hope I can hang on to her long enough."

"I am sure you will," I reassured her.

"The pre-eclampsia is back."

* * *

"Simon, I don't feel so good," my lead violinist muttered, shifting uncomfortably in her chair. I stopped the Christmas rehearsal. It was nearing Christmas, and we had a performance scheduled for the following day. All the favourite carols were being rehearsed at length, and we were teaming up with a local choir for what promised to be an amazing evening of song.

"What's wrong, sweetheart?" I asked, crouching down in front of her. Peter was in front of her in a flash.

"I have really bad backache, and it feels like I am sitting on a tennis ball," she whispered softly, fear written all over her face. She placed a shaking hand over her tiny pregnancy belly. She was only twenty weeks along, exactly halfway through her pregnancy. If this baby was coming, she stood no chance of survival. I placed my hand next to hers, and felt a very soft kick.

"I think we should get you to the gynaecologist just in case, hmm? Let's make sure that Baby Amelia is doing alright, although she is kicking so that is a positive sign. Cassandra, could you please call Dr Ferrandi's office? The number is on the notice board behind my desk, and let him know that we are coming?" I asked the red-haired second violinist. She nodded and took off running to the telephone, while Peter eased Abigail off the chair and carried her to his car. I climbed into the backseat with Abigail in order to keep an eye on her.

"He says to come right in," stated Cassandra, panting as she made it to the car, "Ariané phoned the courthouse. Chris is busy in session but the secretary promised to interrupt and get him out of there."

"Thank you, Cass," called Abigail weakly, curling up into a ball. Peter raced out of the parking lot. I started to rub the small of her back, trying to ease up the pain for her.

* * *

"Well Mrs Theodore, you are three centimetres dilated. That tennis ball you were sitting on is Baby Amelia's head. I am afraid that you are going to be in hospital for the remainder of your pregnancy. We've given you something to slow down the contractions," stated Dr Ferrandi, a kindly, elderly gynaecologist who was one of the best in treating high risk pregnancies.

"Is she going to be alright?" asked Christopher, who was holding his wife's hand. Abigail had tears streaming down her face.

"Right now, the contractions are slowing down. The baby's heart rate is stable. I am concerned about Abigail's blood pressure with the pre-eclampsia right now. She's not well. I need you both to understand that there is only so much that we can do," the gynaecologist began.

"Just tell me the ugly truth. That is all I want. I don't want statistics. Where my family is concerned, we are always the exception. I need to know worst case scenarios," Abigail's voice was firm.

"Your daughter is going to be born prematurely, there is no way we will be able to get you to term safely without losing one, if not both, of you. Our goal is 28 weeks, anything beyond that is a bonus. You need to be prepared. There is a chance that you will not walk out of this hospital with a daughter. There is also a serious risk that you will have a stroke, which can severely incapacitate you, if not kill you. If this happens, we might be able to save your daughter, but the chances are slim.

"The next few weeks are going to be difficult. You are going to be monitored constantly. You will not be allowed out of bed except for a bath, and to use the toilet. You are going to develop debilitating migraines from the high blood pressure and they will only worsen as your pregnancy progresses, and your blood pressure rises, and we won't be able to give you anything that will be enough to ease them. You are going to throw up constantly. You are going to feel a thousand times worse than you already do. And lastly, you will be discharged as a patient weeks before your daughter will be. You'll be commuting to and from this place every day. You won't be able to hold her for a long time. You won't be able to feed her. You're going to worry every waking moment about that tiny infant lying in the NICU. You won't be kept up at night with a crying baby, you'll be kept up with worries about that tiny baby. But it will be worth it, because if it is the last thing I do, you will take this baby home. This pregnancy will not be in vain. Not on my watch."

* * *

"It's February 29th! Happy Leap Year!" sang Peter, bouncing into Abigail's room. She made a rude gesture with her fingers, one arm thrown over her eyes. She had a bad migraine. Christopher smiled weakly, the worry so visible in his eyes. The last two nights had been hair-raising. Abigail's blood pressure had spiked again, and nothing would bring it down. The nurses had refused to give her any more medication until the gynaecologist arrived and did it himself. They had already gone above the limit, and if they administered another ampoule, they could very well give Abigail a heart attack. The gynaecologist had arrived twenty minutes later, clad in his dressing down and slippers, wiping the sleep from his eyes. It was starting to spike again, and we were trying to keep Abigail as relaxed as possible. It was a Saturday. It was lousy weather. Abigail had made it to 30 weeks.

After about two hours of keeping Abigail occupied while Christopher went home to shower, the three of us noticed that something was very wrong with Abigail. She was fading in and out of consciousness. Just as Peter got up to call for help, her blood pressure skyrocketed and Abigail stiffened, before her body started jerking. She was having a seizure.

Almost immediately, her room was filled with people. In the midst of the emergency, I found myself being led out of the room. The gynaecologist raced in, having been paged from his office.

"Book an OR!" I heard him call, "This baby needs to come out now or we will lose both of them!"

They had stopped the seizure, but there was no time to waste and within five minutes, Abigail was being wheeled out of the ward. We followed uselessly, and once at the theatre, Christopher followed them while Peter and I were left to fend for ourselves in the waiting room. An eternity later, an incubator was hurriedly pushed out of the theatre towards the NICU, commands being issued left, right and centre. An exhausted Christopher walked out of the theatre complex a few minutes later in tears. We assumed the worst immediately.

"They are both critically ill, but they are alive for now. Abigail's been taken to recovery. I've asked that you be allowed to sit with her while I check on Amelia. I don't want to leave either of them alone," he stated, wiping his face and sniffing.

"We will keep an eye on Abigail. Oh, and Chris?" I asked, raising my eyebrows in question.

"Amelia Theodore, born February 29, 1992 at 4.12pm. Three pounds, 1 ounce and 49 centimetres long. Tiny, sickly, but alive. Second name still undecided."

"Congratulations, Dad."

* * *

"I don't know Simon, something's just not right with Amelia. She's barely picking up any weight," Abigail's voice was concerned.

"What did the paediatrician say?" I asked, holding the tiny infant in my arms. She had been discharged from hospital at the ripe age of eight weeks. She was now four months old, and absolutely adorable with her green eyes and stand-up hair. The poor kid looked like she'd stuck her fingers into an electric socket, which had earned her the nickname of Bartina, courtesy of the NICU staff, after Bart from the sitcom _The Simpsons_.

"He's run some tests. He took a sweat sample too. He thinks she might have some hereditary lung disease."

"Do you have a lung disease, my precious child? Are you making Mommy and Daddy worry?" I asked the infant seriously. She gurgled and gave me a toothless grin. I fell more and more in love with this kid every day. Amelia coughed, a rattling hack that had me cringing, "I see what you mean, Abs."

"It's called Cystic Fibrosis. It's a defect that affects her exocrine system. Her pancreas, the part of it that is responsible for digestion, is affected. It hits the lungs the hardest. Her sweat is unusually salty as well and her poop is weird."

"I noticed that," I mused, tickling my "grandchild" on her tummy. She giggled, before starting to cry.

"She's hungry," stated Mama Bear, whipping out a bottle out of her diaper bag. I took the bottle, grabbed a towel and fed a hungry Amelia, who grinned widely when she saw the bottle, her body wiggling in excitement.

"Could she be any cuter?" I said to no one in particular.

"It doesn't have a good prognosis. Amelia will never grow old. She won't live long enough to be a mother. She's going to grow up in and out of hospitals."

"She'll have you and Chris, Abs. She has us too. Amelia will be the best she can, and achieve all that she is capable of. She's a fighter."

* * *

An obviously upset Amelia, clad in a princess dress with sneakers toddled in alongside her mother. I assumed, based on both mother and daughter's facial expressions, that the latter's doctor's appointment had not gone well.

"It ran over and she missed her Sleeping Beauty-themed party," explained Abigail wearily, "she cried a little but she's trying not to let it upset her."

I nodded. For the past three weeks, the much anticipated party at the children's ward was all that Amelia could talk about. Her disease had her admitted there as a patient more often than not and she'd been invited purely because she was a frequent flyer in the ward. Apparently she had a bad mutation that caused a host of symptoms. For her own health, she was isolated from other children her age with CF, something was bothered all CF parents. Their children could never interact closely with friends who shared the disease. Day-care was also not an option for Amelia either, as the usual childhood germs at the nursery could be seriously debilitating to her fragile health.

Amelia came with to rehearsals most days and loved every minute. She never interrupted us unless it was absolutely critical, and even so, would wait for as long as she could before seeking help. Only the previous week, she'd 'played' Abigail's violin. She was hesitant around Peter's double bass, it was triple her size after all, but loved to sit next to him and feel the vibrations of the strings resonate on the floor below it. It had been picked up that she had hearing loss – not enough to warrant hearing aids but enough that she heard higher pitch instruments better than she heard lower pitch instruments. We weren't sure if she gravitated towards the violin because her mother played it or because she could hear it better. The xylophone hurt her ears and she'd always clap her hands desperately over her ears when it was played - same with the cymbals. Ambulance sirens were the worst, she'd always scream when they passed.

"What's bothering you, Titch?" I asked, desperate to see a smile on my favourite toddler's face. She looked up at me solemnly, her lower lip trembling and clung to my leg. I picked her up and she threw her little arms around my neck, fighting the tears. I felt a band aid around my neck, they'd obviously drawn blood at her appointment, which was partially responsible for her state. She detested it.

"I couldn't go to my princeth party," she sniffed, "the doctor took forever."

"I'm sorry sweetheart."

"I don't like thixty five rotheth. Ith not nithe."

"No it's not nice," I agreed, stifling a grin at the mispronunciation of her disease. Sixty five roses indeed, "I have an idea!"

"What'th dat?" she sighed, like the world was coming to an end.

"Do you know what makes everything better?" I asked conspiratorially. She shook her head, her eyes wide, "jelly babies."

Amelia gasped, "Weally?"

I nodded solemnly. She mimicked me. For the umpteenth time since she had been born, I resisted the urge to kidnap this precious little girl and bring her home with me. She was simply too sweet for words. She needed a pick-me-up and I knew just the thing.

"You have thirty minutes to rehearse Tchaikovsky's _Waltz Suite_ from you-know-which ballet," I addressed the orchestra authoritatively, "Cass, Abs, the music is in rehearsal room two. Let's put a smile on little one's face."

"Jelly babieth!" exclaimed Amelia enthusiastically, throwing her arms out in zest.

"Jelly babies!" I cheered, with one last nod at the orchestra.

"Thank you, Simon," whispered Abigail.

* * *

"And den he poked me wif a needle dis big!" Amelia gestured with her hands. Yes, the needle was most definitely the size of a knitting needle. She twisted in my lap.

"Really?" I asked in mock fascination, "that is so big!"

"Nah, it wath a lellow one. Dey couldn'd find a v-v-v" she struggled over the word.

"Vein," I supplied.

"Dat word, so dey had to use a bwue one. Thilly Grandpa Thimon, dey don't make needles dat big," she stated, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. They'd been unsuccessful with a yellow needle, the kid's size one, so had to go for a blue one, the infant size one. They'd stuck her twice in their attempt to find a vein to draw some blood. Poor kid.

"Silly me!" I exclaimed, glancing at my watch, "we have a surprise for you, Titch."

"A thurprithe? For me?" her voice was incredulous.

"Especially for you," I confirmed.

"Wow! Fank you, Grandpa Thimon!" she exclaimed, leaping off my lap eagerly. I stood up and she slipped her hand into mine. We walked to the auditorium where the orchestra was waiting for her. She dashed to the front, calling out to her mother, "Maman! Grandpa Thimon hath a thurprithe for me!"

I watched her run, wondering how long it would take for this small angel to be incapacitated, held captive by her own body. She'd ultimately need a double lung transplant, and quite possibly a new heart and pancreas as well. She'd never grow old. Abigail and Christopher were faced with the horrifying reality that their long-awaited daughter would never outlive them. No parent should have to bury their child. It was simply not the natural order of things.

"Would you like to hear it?" Abigail asked her daughter.

"You ith playing for me? Wow! Fank you!" she exclaimed, clapping her little hands in glee. She was an easy child to please. Abigail took her seat while Amelia eagerly plopped onto the floor, back up straight in eager anticipation. When the first notes began to play, she applauded loudly. As the music progressed, and the part that she recognised from the Disney movie, _Sleeping Beauty_ , came to life, her mouth hung open in shock. She snapped out of it and in her child-like way, started to dance. It was time for some Grandpa Simon intervention. I tapped her shoulder and she spun around, her eyes shining brightly with merriment.

"May I have this dance, Princess Amelia?"

"I ith not a princeth!" she stated in concern, worried that I was confusing her with someone else.

"I know, but we can always pretend."

"Okay!"

With that, I hoisted the small girl into my arms and we spun around the hall in a waltz. Seeing the smile light up her face was all that we needed to know that Amelia would be alright. Perhaps we should get her a puppy. She was lonely, and as her parents had been advised against giving her a younger sibling for fear of losing Abigail, she would remain an only child. A puppy could keep her company. A plan started to form in my head.

* * *

"Simon, what are you doing?" queried Benjamin, the bassoon player. I glanced up from where I was restringing a violin, "is that a child-size violin?"

"Yip."

"Why are you stringing it in the opposite way?"

"It's for Amelia."

"She's two and a half."

"And a leftie at that. She's showing a hell of a lot of potential that I don't even see in some ten year olds. She's a prodigy."

"She's also only two and a half. Don't be surprised if she is not that interested in a violin just yet."

"She keeps stealing Abigail's to 'play' it. She's interested alright," I stated, finishing my task and setting the violin down on my desk. A giggle outside my door told me exactly where my favourite prodigy was. I couldn't help the smile that escaped.

"Mommy, he'th in here," I heard Amelia call out. Subtlety was certainly not Amelia's strongest suit.

"Manners, remember Mia?" called Abigail.

"Yeth! I mutht knock firtht," she lisped. Speech therapy was taking a while to improve that, but I thought it was too cute for words. She hammered her palm on the open door and hollered, "Grandpa Thimon! Grandpa Thimon! Open up!"

"Now who do you think that might be, Ben?" I asked Benjamin, who was howling with laughter by this point. Amelia popped her head around the door and grinned broadly.

"Ith me, Mia!" she said eagerly, pointing at herself. In her other hand, a book was tightly grasped. She bounced on the balls of her feet, desperate to be admitted into my office but knowing that she should not enter someone's personal space without their permission first.

"Well, whatever are you doing out there? Come on in, Sunshine," I smile. She eagerly bounded inside the room and made a beeline for my chair. I lifted her up into my lap and was rewarded with an Amelia-hug, a special kind of hug only given to those who were special to her, which encompassed the entire orchestra at this point. She waved at Benjamin before settling on my lap.

"I luf you, Grandpa Thimon!" she sighed softly.

"I love you too, Mia," I replied, grinning at her, "I have something for you."

"For me?" she asked sweetly. Abigail finally arrived, holding her own violin and looking rather dishevelled from the rain outside.

"For you," I confirmed, taking the book from her and glancing at its cover before putting it on my desk. _The Tale of Mrs Tiggy-Winkle_ by Beatrix Potter stared back at me. I handed Amelia her violin and was treated to a gasp of delight and a big thank you, complete with soppy kiss that only toddlers were capable of dealing out. She'd fallen asleep that evening holding onto her new violin. She'd stopped calling me Grandpa Simon, instead calling me Uncle Simon. She grew up. She spent time in hospital; she spent time out of hospital. She was Amelia Grace Theodore. In the years to come, that day would be the one I would always think of when I missed Amelia and her parents. A few short months later, Christopher and Abigail died, orphaning their young daughter. In a cruel twist of fate, her parents got their one wish for her – that she would outlive them. The last time I saw Amelia, she was being dragged away by Social Services, kicking and screaming, begging for us to help her.

* * *

"I can't believe it's been almost thirteen years," Peter spoke aloud. We stood next to each other, listening to some of the talented young high school students who were trying to get a rehearsal in ahead of the competition tomorrow. This was the second year we were keeping an eye out for Amelia. She would be a sophomore by now. We hoped to find her, to see her once more. She'd been lost to the system, and no one would give us any information about her. Was she fed? Did she have a spare blanket in case she got cold? Was she loved? I hoped that she had a nice family to take care of her. Did she still play the violin? As time had carried on, our questions had become more sinister. Was she even still alive?

Every once in a while, I swore I saw her – on the train, in the shopping centre, walking down the street. I missed her. We'd failed Christopher and Abigail, failed them because we could not take care of Amelia like we'd been asked to. She'd been orphaned with literally no other family – no cousins, no aunts or uncles to take care of her. We were all she had, but we'd let her down. Mostly, we'd failed Amelia.

"It doesn't seem real," I stated.

"She'd be sixteen now."

"I know."

We parted ways, and I returned to my office briefly before going to double check that everything was ready for the following day's events. As I turned around the corner to walk across the foyer, I saw Abigail in front of me. Only, she looked so much younger than the last time I saw her. She was holding onto her violin and looking at something on the wall, reaching out to touch it. I blinked, but Abigail remained. But surely it was not, Abigail was dead.

"Mommy?" I heard Abigail whisper. That's when it hit me. It was Amelia. My beloved pseudo-granddaughter was standing right in front of me.

"Sixty Five Roses?" I called. Amelia turned to me, recognition lighting up her face.

"Uncle Simon?" she whispered uncertainly. She hesitantly walked towards me. I closed the gap on my side, noting with a heavy heart that she was oxygen dependent. We embraced. She tensed up slightly when we did, I don't even think she was aware of it. Her eyes held a hint of wariness. Jesus, just what did we do to our little girl?


End file.
